There’s a show or event for just about everyone. Anarchist or not.
Rolling up to the Trumbullplex, Detroit’s self-titled “Sexiest Anarchist Collective,” I’m seven minutes late for its weekly open mic night. After hustling up a long driveway separating the complex’s two-century-old brick houses to meet my contact, Chase (who wasn’t comfortable giving his last name), the warm-up act — a film screening — is still going strong in the barn-like performance space that stops the driveway’s eastward march. And Chase is nowhere to be found.